I wish that I was new.
That my skin didn’t call out their name
As then, I hadn’t met them.
I once was naive:
Anger would be raw
Rather than doused in the petrol of jealousy,
Or envy,
Or paranoia,
Or disappointment.
Anger was fire:
Fast to flicker and burn out.
Now ember litters my skeleton,
Fanned alive again and again
By the breath of bitterness.
I once was fresh,
Eager to grow
Rather than yearning to be picked.
My skin soft, taught with expectation,
Now bruised from lessons
To watch where you fall
Or else grow hard.
I once was me.
I talked
Rather than question the words I say.
I walked
Without fearing what others would say.
My flesh was mine
And now I loathe it
Unless someone else desires it.
I wish that I was new,
Maybe then I wouldn’t feel as I do.
.
.
.
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Megan Hopkin
Illustration Nick Victor